


Into the Woods

by GloriaMundi



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Sharpe - Cornwell
Genre: C19, Crossover, Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-04
Updated: 2003-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-05 18:57:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A river runs through the wood, and rivers are notorious boundaries ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Woods

His mouth was dry, and he had drunk the last of his water hours before. He hoped for rain. Somewhere in the distance he could hear thunder, though there were no flashes of lightning to accompany it. When he looked around for Legolas and Gimli, he could see neither. He called their names, softly, and listened, but there was no reply.

The wood, indeed, was unusually quiet: as quiet as an elf-glade, though these were no mallorn-trees that rose around him. Where had the quest led him? Days without sleep, and he had somehow wandered apart from his companions: was lost, for all his years in the wilderness, in a wood at night.

The thunder crashed again, and something heavy fell from high above the treetops, crashing through branches to land somewhere behind him. He almost fled: he almost turned back to seek out whatever had fallen (a star? a huge winged beast? some wizardly device?)

But ahead of him he could hear running water, and his thirst gnawed at his dry throat.

He moved as silently as he could, now that the thunder had stopped. Faintly, far away, he heard men screaming, but that faded too. The light grew stronger, though he had thought the night not half done. Mist rippled between the trees ahead of him.

* * *

His mouth was parched and tasted of gunpowder, and the heavy cavalry sword seemed to drag him down to the ground with every step. He'd left his rifle somewhere behind him, in the death grip of the enemy soldier he'd clubbed down. There was no more ammunition, anyway.

Another shell screamed overhead and crashed to earth somewhere in front of him. The battle was still being fought, then. Neither side had surrendered. He had been in the midst of it but somehow, in pursuit of the enemy, he had left the action somewhere behind him. He had not seen a soldier -- friend or foe -- for a while now. He was in among the trees, not quite sure which direction he'd come from. He didn't remember any woods on the maps, but the maps were useless. A soldier's picture of the land wasn't complete until he'd walked over it. He'd seen maps with roads marked where there were none, or with rivers in the middle of barren scrubland. He'd seen a city standing where the map showed empty land.

Here he could see nothing. There were tall trees around him, smoke and mist weaving between them. It was like winter in Flanders, but the air was warm. And ahead of him was a river -- a stream, anyway -- running deep enough for him to hear the noise of water on stony banks. God, his mouth was dry. He quickened his pace.

* * *

He stood cautiously in the narrow space between two great trees, scanning the banks of the river for any sign of life. The stream was not broad, and it flowed swiftly from west to east -- no, from left to right. He was no longer certain of where north lay. Fangorn Forest had ensnared him, twisted his path around and parted him from his companions, and he was lost.

Someone was crashing through the undergrowth on the other side of the stream, making no effort to be quiet. He moved back into the shadows behind the two great trees, loosening his sword in its scabbard. No Elf would walk so carelessly, and even Gimli had woodlore enough to watch where he walked.

It was a Man. Aragorn saw the shape of him in the mist before he could make out anything else. The Man was tall and strongly built. There was blood on his face, and his light hair was streaked with dust and sweat. Aragorn wondered at the dust: the forest was cool and moist.

The stranger's clothes were of a foreign cut, and the good green cloth was stained. The sword at his side and the boots on his feet marked him a warrior. He exclaimed, some oath or imprecation, and all but threw himself down on the muddy bank of the stream, scooping the cold water up in his cupped hand.

Aragorn bit back an exclamation of his own. He could see the stranger's face, and he...

No. It was not possible. Boromir had spoken of his brother: this must be Faramir, Denethor's younger son. This was no ghost, sighing with relief as the cool water splashed over his face.

But he was in Fangorn, where trees walked and old spirits brooded. The Lord Faramir would surely not venture here alone, in outlandish war gear.

Aragorn stepped forward, out of the shadow of the trees.

* * *

Christ, but it was good to wash the stickiness from his skin! Sharpe's fingers probed the cut that had bled so much. Head wounds always bled a lot, though. This was just a scratch. He remembered the blow. It had been a sword cut and he had parried it just as another soldier had fallen against him and knocked him off-balance. He hadn't noticed the pain, but the bleeding had annoyed him, and he hated the sound of flies buzzing around him.

Not that there were flies here by the stream, under the quiet shade of the trees. He couldn't even hear the battle any more. He needed to find his Company, needed to return to the fight before someone took him for a deserter. But it was quiet here, and there was nobody around.

He felt watched, though, the way he felt when an enemy marksman had him in his sights. Richard Sharpe had not survived this long by ignoring his instincts. He looked up, across the stream. Into the eyes of the enemy.

No, Sharpe told himself even as he rolled back, crouching, sword screeching out of the scabbard. This isn't one of theirs. This is...

The man's coat looked rough and shabby, like a herdsman's, but there was a long sword at his side, and his hand was on its hilt. He was carrying a bow and a quiver-full of arrows on his back like a hunter. His hair was long and greasy, and his moustache and beard were not neatly trimmed like those of the enemy soldiers Sharpe had seen. And he was not attacking. He was looking intently at Sharpe, eyes narrowed.

"Lord Faramir?" he called.

"I'm no bloody Lord," said Sharpe rudely. "Who the hell are you?"

"I have many --" The other man broke off, still staring at Sharpe. "May I cross the stream? I would speak with you."

Sharpe scowled at the formality. "Come over if you want," he said. Maybe this man could tell him how to find the battlefield again. He was tall and strong, but Sharpe wasn't going to turn his back on him, so there was nothing to fear there. And if it turned out that he was an enemy after all...

Cross that bridge when we come to it, thought Sharpe to himself. He watched the other man wading across the stream. The cold water came almost to his waist, and he lifted his sword up to keep the blade dry. His bright blue gaze was fixed on Sharpe, and it was oddly intense.

* * *

Aragorn scrambled up the bank, since the stranger did not reach out a hand to help him. He looked away, as much to defuse the tension between them as because the Man's resemblance to Boromir unsettled him.

"Why were you watching me?"

Aragorn did not recognise the accent that coloured the Man's speech, but it reminded him of the way that Bree-folk talked. He straightened up and stared back at the other Man, meeting the suspicious scowl with careful blandness. "I heard you coming through the forest. I waited to see if you were friend or foe."

The Man sneered. The curl of his lip was identical to Boromir's, at that memorable Council. "Which side's which, then?"

"Side?" said Aragorn, spreading his hands. "There are evil things abroad these days. I call none friend that clings to the shadows, or calls Sauron lord. I..." He fell silent at the other man's confusion.

"I've not heard of a Sauron," the Man in green said. "I serve King George, God bless--"

"I know no king named George," said Aragorn softly, hand on the hilt of his sword. "There is no king in Gondor, nor has been for many a year. I took you for kin of the Steward, but now I see it is not so."

"Gondor?" said the Man, frowning in honest bewilderment.

They stared at one another, not quite daring to speak of anything else.

"Truly the forest has led us both awry," said Aragorn at last, with a small rueful smile. "And we must hope to find our separate ways again. Will you break bread with me?"

"I've got no food," said the Man, "or I'd be happy to share."

"I have lembas-bread, if you like," Aragorn offered.

"Aye," said his companion, nodding. "It's a while since breakfast."

Aragorn broke off a corner of lembas and handed it to the blond Man. His hands were broad and long-fingered, with dirt under the nails and scars over the knuckles: Boromir's hands. Aragorn looked away.

They did not speak while they ate, but they cast quick, appraising looks at one another. Aragorn observed the fine work of the metal buttons on his companion's tight jerkin, and the evenness of the dye. Yet his sleeves were ragged, and his sword an ugly, heavy weapon, more like Orcish work than any Gondorian soldier's gear.

The other Man was eyeing him suspiciously. Aragorn guessed that his own gear looked outlandish to a stranger's eye.

"Your name?" he asked, gesturing.

"Sharpe," said the Man, chewing greedily at the lembas. "You?"

"Aragorn," said Aragorn, deciding that his ancestry would mean nothing to this Sharpe.

* * *

Aragorn. It was a foreign name, but the man didn't speak like a Frog, or one of the Spanish grandees. There was something about his voice that reminded Sharpe of Wellesley. He had moved gracefully, like the lords and dukes Sharpe had seen in London. He'd been living rough for a while, though: that showed in the state of his boots, which looked to have tramped over all of Europe. Yet here he was, lost.

"You called it a forest," said Sharpe. "But it ain't. It's a wood, no more. The edge of it can't be more than a hundred yards back there." He gestured over his shoulder.

"I fear you have strayed into Fangorn," the other man -- Aragorn -- said softly. "That way the trees are thickest, or so it seems to me."

Sharpe turned to look behind him. He didn't remember the darkness beneath the trees being so damned dark. He couldn't hear the crash of shells, or the distant roar of the battle, any more. It was unnervingly quiet.

"Fangorn? What's that?"

"An ancient forest. They say the trees here walk down to the river to drink."

Sharpe grinned. "Now that'd be a sight worth seeing," he said. "Imagine it! That'd have the whole army swearing off drink!"

They both laughed, and Sharpe reckoned there was a bit of relief in that laugh too. Sometimes a man needed to laugh, to forget about danger and death and mistrust.

"Why do you keep looking at me that way?" he asked.

Aragorn flushed, and turned his head to stare out across the stream. Sharpe followed his gaze, but he couldn't see any movement in the trees on the other bank. "You have the ... the look of a friend of mine," said Aragorn.

"When did you see him last?" Sharpe said.

Aragorn stared into the rippling water. "He died in battle, two days ago. We let the river bear him away."

"A ... particular friend?" Sharpe asked, gently.

"We were learning to be friends, to overcome what lay between us," said Aragorn. "He called me his brother, at the end." He looked back at Sharpe, and the rifleman was surprised to see the glimmer of tears in his eyes.

Sharpe remembered Tom, back in India, and how much it had hurt when he thought Tom dead. He nodded.

"He died an honourable death!" said Aragorn fiercely, though Sharpe had said nothing.

"But you'd rather he was still alive, and honour be damned." He watched his companion carefully, ready to defend himself if Aragorn decided to take offence at that.

"He -- Boromir -- would rather be dead than live dishonoured," Aragorn said. He sighed. "I would have had him live. I would have had him redeem himself at my side." He looked up, and Sharpe could see it all plainly in his face: love, anger, lust, bitterness.

"I'm sorry for your loss," said Sharpe.

"You have lost someone too?"

"Not recently," said Sharpe. He thought of Harper. "But I'll bet they think they've lost me. I have to --"

Aragorn's hand came to rest over his own. Sharpe did not pull away.

* * *

This Man was no Boromir, though his face, his hands, that amazing, luminous smile ... But he could not take Sharpe to Gondor, nor fight shoulder to shoulder with him against the armies of Saruman and Sauron. And yet Aragorn could not keep from asking, "Will you not come with me?"

"And go where?" said the other man. His voice was calm, but his breathing belied it. "We're in the middle of a battlefield."

"There is no battle in Fangorn, from whence I came," said Aragorn softly, and he gestured with his free hand. "Cross the stream. We might..."

And yet he knew that they could not. Across the stream, the preludes to kingship awaited him: he must find Legolas and Gimli, pick up the trail of the two Hobbits, defend the White City with his last breath as Boromir would have done.

He watched Sharpe, too, fight back inclination with duty.

"I'd like to," the other man said. "I'd ... but I have to go back. I have to find my Company." He forced a smile. "If there's any of 'em left."

Aragorn inclined his head, accepting. "We are not free," he said.

"Your friend wasn't free either, was he?" Sharpe said, and it took Aragorn a moment to realise that he was speaking of Boromir.

"He wasn't free," he agreed, and did not mention the Ring. "Yet he chose --"

The sensation of the other man's mouth on his was shocking. Sharpe had moved quickly, leaning forward to kiss him: he had the advantage. Aragorn reached up with his left hand to brace himself against the other man's shoulder as he returned the kiss.

This, this was how it would have been to kiss Boromir. Yet somehow he thought it was not quite the same. Sharpe's mouth was salty, and his lips were dry. Boromir had been bearded, but Sharpe was clean-shaven, and he smelt of oil and metal. Boromir had smelt of woodsmoke, cold sweat and blood, there at Parth Galen when Aragorn had touched his lips to the other man's forehead.

And yet the kiss was sweet.

* * *

Sharpe had not planned the kiss. The warmth of Aragorn's hand over his had been comforting. More than comforting. As though the other man were pouring vitality and courage into him. Sharpe felt as though he had just woken up. The long, wakeful night before the battle might have been years ago.

And so he had leant forward and kissed the other man, easily and naturally, as though they had all day to sit here by the river. Neither of them was free, but if Aragorn had pulled him down to the grass, Sharpe would not have protested again. The feel of the other man's lips against his excited him, and made him want to press closer against Aragorn: but if this kiss was all they could have, it had to be savoured for itself alone.

* * *

Faintly, from across the river, Aragorn heard voices. He drew back from the kiss, gazing into Sharpe's eyes. Green eyes. A sudden sharp pang of remembrance, of Boromir's eyes in the moments before death dimmed them: but Aragorn would not let himself think of that.

"I must go back." He pressed his lips together, sealing more words inside, for there was nothing more to be said.

"Good luck," said Sharpe, smiling, and Aragorn smiled back at him as he stepped into the water and began to cross the stream. More clearly now, he could hear the Elf's voice. The branches above him rustled, as if something heavier than a squirrel moved there. Aragorn glanced up, but he could see nothing.

And then he was at the river-bank, hauling himself up onto dry grass. He looked back across the water, but he already knew that Sharpe would not be there any more.

-end-

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the rugbytackle challenge: "Take any two Mortensen-Bean characters NOT from the same film and slash them." Thanks to cinzia and cruisedirector for the betas!


End file.
